Random Number Generator
#27 of Twitter bot responses was "Flamboyant Mammoth Smoke"
The bell atop Mem tolls thrice, deep and mournful, and in a square brick building across the way a once fresh-faced Science Whittie grinds the heels of her hands into her aching eye sockets. Lights pop behind her lids, and continue to burst across her vision even after she looks up and gazes blearily around the deserted atrium. Rising creakily onto unsteady feet almost as sleepy as their owner, she hobbles around in a circle, slowly forcing the feeling back into her lower extremities through sheer force of will. She stops after a couple laps and leans on the glass wall enclosing various priceless relics of the ancient past; her unfocused eyes traverse across a mammoth femur as she gingerly massages her own.
Why did I decide to major in this shit? she wonders aloud to herself, not expecting any answer.
And yet one appears regardless: out of the elephantine calcite lying in repose behind the glass pours a swirl of thick purple dust, which passes through the barrier as if by osmosis. Coalescing before her astonished eyes, suddenly wide open, it takes the form of a suave woolly mammoth, some seven feet tall on his hind legs and clad in a lush velvet suit of deepest mauve. A fedora of similar shade was cocked low over one eye; the other winked out from behind a golden monocle. His feet—or hooves? she couldn’t tell, as the termini of his legs were enclosed in high-topped platform shoes of a rich cream color. The apparition regarded her calmly, took a long drag from a Cigar the size of a banana, and after flicking it into the nearest trash bin with a deft motion of his prehensile trunk, he spoke.
Damn, girl, you majorin’ in this shit cuz you love it, even when it hurts. Now pack your stuff up and walk on out onto the quad—you’ll find the final answer there. And with that, he vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared.